The Blood-Stained Glass Heart

She scrubs the floors with hands that bleed, her heart, a brittle thing beneath her chest— a reflection of the shattered glass she once danced on, believing love was a crown meant to fit anyone. The prince's ring, so smooth, is a shackle, and his kiss— not a promise, but a contract with the devil’s own whisper. Her stepsisters wear their cruelty like fine silk, while her smile fades into the dust of her cinders. The carriage, once golden, is a cage that rattles down the path toward a ball that was never hers to begin with. The clock does not strike midnight. It grinds her bones to powder, and she is left standing in the ruins of her own dreams, the glass slipper cutting into her flesh as if it always knew it was meant to break her.